Reservation
by LadySilver
Summary: Melissa wants to know more about her son's new friends. One-shot.


_A/N: This was originally written for the Teen Wolf Exchange on LJ based on the prompt "Family Dinner." The version below has been revised from the draft that appeared on the Xchange site. Comments and constructive criticism welcome._

**Reservation**

by LadySilver

"Ask them to dinner," Melissa had said. "I want to meet your friends."

"Mom!" Scott had protested, pitch rising in affront, just like it did when he was in the seventh grade and Melissa had suggested that he invite a girl he'd been crushing on over for dinner. "They're _not_ my friends."

Melissa had raised her eyebrows, used to her son's penchant both for splitting hairs and for sticking to a perspective even after it had been proven wrong. She waited him out. She could still do that, though the time was coming when he'd realize that she only won these squabbles because he assumed she would.

"They're pack," he added, looking away. He scratched idly at the laminate surface of the kitchen table, a crumb of food or drop of candle wax serving as a distraction. His face passed through a series of expressions, ending with him pressing his lips together stubbornly.

She knew that look. Unlike a lot of parents, she had never blamed her child's negatives on his other parent. Far too many times in her life, she had caught Scott behaving in a way that should have made her angry or upset, but all she could do was shake her head in resignation and think "there's another thing he got from me." This was one of them. She had to admit that her son informing her of his being a werewolf was surprising. How did a parent mentally prepare for _that? _She thought she was handling it well. But the way he locked up when it came to explaining anything, as if the information was deeply private or embarrassing … she started to shake her head. "Scott," she prompted. "Look at me."

He acquiesced slowly, the chair scraping on the wooden floor as he turned with his whole body.

"I'm still your mother," she had pointed out, as if she needed to. Maybe she did.

The idea had seemed so reasonable. Isn't this what parents did? Get to know who their children were spending time with? Make sure they were good people? Make sure they were _people_? Melissa looked around the front hallway now, at the four others standing there. Scott, of course. And Stiles. That one had thrown her. "Are you-? she asked when he walked in the front door. She suddenly remembered how he had let himself in the night of that full moon, how the duffle bag he'd been carrying clanked when it landed on the floor, how skittish he'd been.

He didn't let her finish the sentence. "Nah," he drawled. "I just wouldn't miss this for anything. Also, how could a guy pass up a chance at a home-cooked meal? It's Banquet Frozen Dinner night at the Stilinskis."

The other guests were Derek Hale and Jackson Whittemore. She remembered Jackson from the hospital, when he'd asked to use her computer. When he'd identified himself as one of Scott's friends. There'd been something off about him then, a sense that he was the kind of person who warped the world to fit his needs, regardless of whether it bent that direction. She still saw it in him, and instinctively took a step closer to her son, insinuating herself into the space between them. Scott set a hand on her lower arm. Holding her back? Offering to go in first?

Derek offered his hand and a twitching of his cheek muscles that was almost a smile. She tried not to stare at him. Meeting him at a gas station, under the shroud of night and winter chill, the harsh glow of lights meant to give patrons the illusion of safety—that had been strange enough. Having him standing in her front hallway, one hand shoved in the pocket of his leather jacket, his eyes skittering around the room, cataloguing—that seemed to violate every rule of the universe. And, yet, looking at him, she doubted what she knew, that he was a werewolf. The Alpha, Scott called him. The only one of them who had been born, not created. He looked like any young man who still thought he had something to prove. Melissa accepted the handshake. His grip was firm, but not crushing. His hand warm, but no more than anyone else's.

"Dinner's just about ready," she said, walking back toward the kitchen. "Come on in. Make yourself at home."

Stiles was already peering into the oven when she got to the kitchen, hunkered down in front of the glass window as if trying to make sure the food didn't escape before he could eat it.

Jackson's gaze swept the room, taking in the birdhouse collection she kept in the space between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling, the linen tablecloth she'd pulled from the back of the closet (had it been a wedding present?), the pottery dishes already on the table. "You have a beautiful home, Mrs. McCall," he said, though the twitching in his cheek didn't quite agree with him. She could recognize social training when she saw it; he didn't yet have the practice to follow the rules without looking uncomfortable.

"Thank you," she responded. "It's been in the family for generations." Her grandfather had built the house, in fact. A point of pride she usually mentioned, though she suspected that it wouldn't mean much to kids.

He nodded as if that explained something he hadn't been able to figure out. "Can I do anything to help finish up?" His blond hair had been recently trimmed, his shirt freshly starched. He had put some effort into his appearance, as if he were meeting the parents of a girlfriend he hoped to impress. Yet, Scott had told her that Derek had had to threaten Jackson to show up at all.

Melissa glanced at the timer on the microwave which showed only a few minutes left on the entre. "No, but thank you for offering. Scott?" She raised an eyebrow at him, an unspoken hint that he should be fulfilling drink requests. He jumped, as if startled to be assigned a task, or to be caught slacking on one. He had his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans, was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, looking uncomfortable and out-of-place. Lunging for the cabinet as if racing against the microwave's clock, he yanked glasses out onto the counter. One slipped from his fingers and fell toward the floor. Then Derek was setting it back on the counter with a soft clink. Melissa blinked, shook her head, still waiting for the shattering crash. How had he caught the glass? Could they all do that?

Jackson cleared his throat. "Show off," he accused. Derek shot him a glare. He shrugged. "Just calling it like I see it." Looking to Scott he continued, "Water will be fine. Ice." Scott set his jaw, but filled the order without comment.

Soon the dinner finished cooking and Melissa started to dish it up. She'd made a Chicken Parmesan from scratch with whole wheat noodles, a choice she'd agonized over. "I hope your … pack … doesn't want steak," she'd said, pen posed over the grocery list. She'd combed a hand through her curly hair, tried not to think about how much steak dinners for three werewolves would cost.

"Chicken will be fine, Mom," Scott assured her. "It's even OK if you cook it." He grinned, and she realized how close she'd come to sticking her foot in mouth. She'd probably be doing that a lot.

"Cooked, it is." She smiled back, relieved, and started scribbling the ingredients down, working from a memorized recipe that she hadn't made in who knew how long. It had been a long time since she'd done any real cooking.

Smelling the bite of tomatoes and garlic in the air as she ladled extra sauce over the noodles, she vowed to start cooking more. She should teach Scott. Give her an excuse to spend more time with him. He'd be moving out in a couple years, either for college or for a job-

"Do werewolves have jobs?" she asked Derek suddenly. "Or do you just—"

"Run around naked in the woods and howl at the moon?" he answered, as if he'd heard this question before.

She blushed at how stupid the question was. There went her foot again. Scott bent over his plate, hiding his face. Stiles touched his arm, an offer of reassurance. Was this a question her son worried about, too?

"I graduated last year from New York University with a degree in Economics. For the last two years, I worked as a bouncer at a bar."

The other boys froze, all eyes slowly centering on Derek.

"You never asked," Derek replied to their stunned, unspoken questions. He sliced a large piece from his chicken, twirled it in the noodles, and ate it. He made a low noise of appreciation, and Melissa blushed again, this time at the success of her cooking.

The mood changed, everyone relaxing and settling in to eating. The serving dishes emptied out so quickly that Melissa almost could have mistaken the steam rising from the empty Pyrex as friction smoke.

She kept an eye on how they interacted. More could be gleaned from body language than most people understood. As a nurse, she well knew that what people said and what they meant often had very little to do with each other. Scott and Jackson bickered and sniped at each other, but they always seemed to anticipate what the other needed and had it to them before a request could be made. Salt and pepper and butter were passed, extra servings dished out, drinks refilled all without comment. The three boys moved as if choreographed, the two younger ones making unconscious deference to Derek, offering him the last chicken breast, the last serving of green beans. When it came time to clean up, Jackson cleared Derek's plate.

Only she and Stiles weren't attuned to rhythms of the table. As the meal progressed, she felt more out of touch, clumsier. Not uncomfortably so, but definitely noticeable. She caught Stiles watching her over the desert plates. He winked. Just like that, she was admitted to his club.

While watching the boys clean up afterward—on Derek's insistence—she took a moment to bask in the success of the evening. She had cooked dinner for a pack of werewolves and it had gone over well. There was an accomplishment to cross off her bucket list—not that it had ever been on it. What it all meant, though—that part she still wasn't clear on.

One thing had become obvious, though: no matter that she was Scott's mom, she didn't have any right to reject these people, to tell Scott that he couldn't see them again. Even if she had wanted to.

Scott was right; they weren't his friends. They were much more important than that.

END


End file.
